Two of Hearts
by The Delphian
Summary: "I can promise you a few surprises, a thrill or two along the way, and, with luck, a happy ending." - Zatanna Zatara. A series of BM/ZZ one-shots.
1. Two of Hearts

**A/N: I've recently fallen in love with this pairing. I really like this little one-shot, so much so that I'm considering making this a series of Bruce/Zatanna one-shots. This one was inspired by the episode "Zatanna" from Batman the Animated Series.**

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There's a chorus of wolf whistles that fills the room as the resounding _click, click_ of stilettos make its way across the metallic floors of the watchtower. The eyes of red-blooded males rake up and down tan, shapely legs garbed in fishnets, watching intently as they gracefully make their way towards the back of the room, hips swaying side to side in a confident, seductive manner. The magician smiles, her soft, nude-glossed lips tugging gently at the corner, deep blue eyes never leaving their target. She arrives at her destination. A gloved hand reaches out in order to softly brush the shoulder of the brooding Caped Crusader who sits at the room's end, his white lenses focused upon the screen of a control panel with great intensity. The magician turns to face him, allowing her hand to linger upon the Dark Knight's shoulder so she may use it as leverage to hoist herself up upon the panel's surface, her long, lean legs crossing at the knee.

A typical man would cease his work and find himself honored to have such an interruption. A typical man would turn to gawk at the beauty before him, and possibly even allow a few dribbles of drool to fall past his lips. At minimum, a typical man would greether, acknowledge her existence, but the man who sits before the magician is anything but typical; his eyes remain glued to the console, his disposition entirely unchanged. He knows she's there, of course, he always knows, but knowledge is hardly enough to earn his attention. But the magician continues to smile, her lips frozen in what seems to be a look of subtle amusement as she removes her top hat, reaching inside to pull out a clichéd wand whose length is far too grand to have fit inside the accessory. The Knight pays no mind as she places her hat back upon her silken head. She takes the wand in her right hand and waves it over the open palm of her left, a deck of cards emerging from a cloud of rose-colored smoke. She tosses the wand over her shoulder and it vanishes from thin air, leaving both hands free and capable of shuffling the deck that lay upon the silk of her gloves. She spreads them out in a fan, holding them carefully in both hands as she forces them into the stone-faced man's line of sight.

"Pick a card." She tells him, grin athwart her face, a mischievous sparkle in her eye.

The Knight acknowledges her then. His head turns slightly and his eyes move towards the corner of each lens, observing the fan of cards that rests within the magician's hands.

"You're terrible at this trick." He says, but takes a card anyways. He studies it briefly before setting it face down upon the magician's firm thigh.

The magician's grin becomes enthusiastic as she shuffles the deck once more, but this time with more flare. The cards swirl about her curvaceous form in a marvelous dance, earning her numerous _"Oo's"_ and _"Ah's"_ from the others that reside in the room. She isn't surprised to find that the Dark Knight had turned back to his work, and, as a result, had not been watching. It doesn't bother her. She fans out the cards once more, shoving them towards him.

"Put it back in the deck." She demands.

The Knight does as he's told. He picks up the card he had placed upon her thigh, not even bothering to look as he swiftly slides it back into her hands. Her smile fades as she proceeds with the final shuffle; her concentration is evident. She does not bother to make this one fancy, but is sure to make it thorough. She bites at her bottom lip and reaches hesitantly for the card that lay at the top of the deck. She gives its face a quick glance and smiles.

"Seven of diamonds!" She exclaims, her blue eyes gleaming with child-like triumph.

The Dark Knight grunts, but does not turn. The magician frowns and pushes the card further into his view.

"_Well?_" She presses, "Is this your card or not?"

The Knight turns then. He regards the card for quite some time, studying it intensely as though he were to have a quiz on it next week. The magician's frown only deepens as she waits for what seems like an eternity before something truly magical happens: a smile tugs at the Knight's lips. The magician grins; she had finally won. She's seconds away from erupting into a celebratory squeal before she realizes that the Knight's smile is not one of happiness, nor praise, but one of arrogance. The magician frowns once more.

"Not," says the Knight, "but this one is."

And sure enough, his chosen card is pulled from his gauntlet; he places it back upon her thigh, face down. He stands from his chair, haughty smile still spread wide across his lips.

He says to her, "Maybe next time, Zana," then departs, leaving the magician to wonder how the trick could have possibly gone wrong.

She looks down into her lap, a frown glued to her face as she reaches for the card that had betrayed her. She turns it over and begrudgingly observes its face.

Two of hearts.

She smiles.

"Yes," she whispers, "maybe next time."

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**A/N: Please review and let me know if anyone out there is interested in me continuing this. And, if so, whether it should be a full-out story or simply a series of one-shots. Also, constructive criticism is both appreciated and encouraged. **


	2. John Smith

**A/N: The reviews were mixed in response as to whether I should continue this as a story or a series of one-shots. However, this little ditty kind of just poured out of me, answering the question for me. This one-shot is meant to take place during the time Bruce was studying escapology under the guise of John Smith – I hope you all enjoy! (P.S. I made a mistake on Zatanna's eye-color last time; apparently her eyes are blue, not brown.)**

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A pair of high-waist shorts lay abandoned in the sand. Next to it: a yellow tank top, one that had been discarded just moments ago. The young man finds it difficult to look up from the rejected clothing; he stands there, cursing the heat that threatens to crawl up his broad neck.

She calls to him, "C'mon, John; the water's warm!" And although it's against his better judgment, he looks up in order to acknowledge her.

She's knee-deep in the ocean. Salted waves pour in and splash against her thighs as she smiles at him, eyes bright with child-like wonder. She's clad in nothing but her underwear: a white cotton bra and a matching pair of panties. It's nothing fancy. It does nothing to accentuate her figure, nor does it expose an unnecessary amount of flesh, but she's still beautiful. Her legs are still long and shapely, her waist still slim, her skin still tan, and her body still curved in all the right places. The boy is only eighteen years of age. His hormones get the best of him as he watches her shake her hair out of its ponytail, luscious black locks falling past her shoulders with an implausible amount of grace. The young man takes a step forward; he's never wanted to be so close and yet so far away from a person all at the same time.

"I don't think we should be doing this, Zana." He tells her, and he knows it sounds stupid. He isn't the least bit surprised when she laughs at him.

"Don't be such a spoilsport!" She says, a giggle passing through her lips, "Take those pants off and get in here!"

The young man frowns and looks down at himself, cursing silently as the heat returns and makes its way up towards his ears. He wishes he had worn shorts. His chest is already bare, and as he reaches down towards the hem of his pants, his heart rate increases. Hesitantly, he lets them fall to the ground. He steps out of them. All that exists beneath his Kaki's are a short pair of jockey's, and he shouldn't feel embarrassed, but he does. He doesn't dare to look up and make eye contact as he makes his way towards the water.

"We should really be heading back to the hotel." He says, but his feet continue to move towards the ocean, his eyes remain glued to the ground.

She giggles again, and her laugher's like candy to him; it's been so long since he's ever truly been amused, so long since he's ever heard the sound of a genuine laugh, that he isn't even upset it's at the cost of his own discomfort.

"Yes," she says, "there are plenty of things we should and shouldn't be doing."

He looks up at her then. Her blue eyes are sparkling with playful mischief, her arms crossed just below her generous chest as she watches him move towards her at an agonizingly slow pace.

"But, then again, maybe we _should_." she says, extending a hand in order to snatch one of his, pulling him towards her own form forcefully. He stumbles a bit, bare flesh coming in contact with bare flesh. "By the time we'd get back, my father would be at the theater preparing for his show; we'd have the room to ourselves."

She's looking up at him under a thick set of eyelashes, the expression on her face only able to be described as hopeful. He's finding it difficult to speak. His breath is caught in his throat and those blasted youthful hormones of his are flaring up again.

"I…I couldn't do that, Zana." He tells her, and she isn't the least bit surprised.

She sighs and lays the side of her face against his bare chest. Her arms attempt to encircle his waist, but are too short for her hands to meet at his backside.

"Yes, you could." She whispers, and the hurt is apparent in her voice.

He struggles to find the appropriate place to put his hands, and, admittedly, he wonders if he's always been this awkward with women. His insides ache at that thought, for the young girl before him is only sixteen years of age and can hardly be called a woman. And yet, at only two years her senior, he feels as though he has been a man since he was eight years old. Hesitantly, he allows his own hands to find the small of her back.

"Your father has graciously taken me in, has offered to train me at no cost; I couldn't disrespect him that way." He says, his voice barely audible, "I couldn't…I couldn't disrespect _you _that way."

She's pouting now, and, much to his surprise, she pushes away from him. She wades through the water and tugs at her hair, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

"You're not like other guys, John." She tells him, but, quite frankly, she isn't entirely sure her words are true. For, as little romantic progress they have been making, it's the most she has ever made with any man. "Just tell me one thing…"

She turns around to look at him again, and his stomach doubles over at the sight of pain in her ocean-blue eyes. He says nothing, but she takes that as an invitation to continue.

"What's your real name?" She asks, and the overwhelmingly hurt expression on her face has him considering the idea of telling her the truth.

But he frowns and tells her, "It's John," because he can't think of anything better to say.

She sighs and turns away from him once more; his eyes betray him and eagerly steal a glance at her backside.

"No, it isn't," Is all she says before making her way back towards the shore.

He watches as she begins to replace her clothing, and he questions his own motives for saying no to her. Had he gone back to the hotel with her, there was hardly a possibility of her father finding out. Even if he had, the man was far too fond of him to be upset about it. By God, he'd be thrilled; he'd start making wedding plans. No, this wasn't about her father, this was about her. But it had nothing to do with disrespecting her; no, not at all, this had everything to do with _protecting_ her – protecting her from disappointment. He wasn't the man she thought he was.

"No," he says softly, "it isn't."

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**A/N: Please review! **


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